I grin, drop to my knees in front of her, and put a finger to my lips.
“They’re not alone,” I whisper back.
She glances past me, out the crack in the wall. “How many?”
“Three I saw. Maybe more.” I gesture at her foot. “You okay?”
She nods, but I see the way her hands are shaking. I reach for her, but she jerks away.
“I can make it,” she says, but her voice is thready.
I lean in, close enough that my lips brush hers. “Let me help.”
“I don’t want your help. I want you to—”
A sound outside. The creak of the broken door.
I pull her to her feet, cover her mouth with my hand, and press her against the wall. Her heart’s beating so hard I can feel it in my own chest.
The first Castillo steps in, gun up. He scans left, right, then heads straight for the back corner.
I let him get two steps in, then I move.
My hand goes around his wrist, twisting the gun up and away. I slam him into the wall, use my free hand to drive the heel of my palm into his nose. He grunts, but not loud enough to alert the others.
I break his wrist on the edge of the door, and when the gun drops, I kick it under the shelf.
He gurgles something in Italian, but I don’t care.
The next one comes in, sees his buddy folded on the ground, and opens fire—two shots, both wide. I grab a plank from the floor and swing it at his head, and the crunch is like stepping on ice.
He drops.
The third one’s outside, yelling now. I hear the click of a radio, the pop of a flare gun as he tries to signal the others.
I turn to Dahlia, her eyes wide and white in the dark.
“Run,” I say.
She hesitates, just long enough to piss me off, then she’s out the back window, gone in a blink.
I follow, but not right away. I want the Castillos to see me. I want them to know who it was that fucked up their hit squad. I grab the broken wrist guy by the throat, haul him to the window, his chin dangling over a sharp shard of glass, and shove his face out so his friend can see.
“Tell your boss,” I growl, “I’ll see him soon.”
Then I let him drop.
I sprint after Dahlia, following her scent and the blood. She’s slower now, but she’s not panicking. She’s moving with purpose, toward the greenhouse.
Smart.
I close the gap, watching for more shadows, more guns, but there’s nothing. Just the slap of her feet on the frozen grass and the moon turning her white pajamas into a beacon.
She trips, falls, and for a second, I think she’s going to give up. But she doesn’t. She crawls into the greenhouse, and I give it a five-count before I follow.
I need to make sure no one is trailing her.
Inside, it’s dark and hot, the glass fogged. The smell of wet earth and rot is thick enough to choke.
